Beginning Again
by WhiteLadyoftheRing
Summary: An AU taking place after the season 3 finale. The Warehouse family comes to terms with their losses, as a new foe threatens to take over the artifact-raiding business, starting with the Secret Archives of the Regents. An adventure in three parts. Pete/Myka friendship with a dash of sexual tension . Artie/Vanessa. Rated T . Spoilers for seasons 1-3. Now complete.
1. Act I

****_Disclaimer: I own nothing at all. Warehouse 13 belongs to SyFy/Universal/whoever else is on the credits.  
_

* * *

**Act I**

Myka had never considered a wedding to be a somber event – not until today, at least. Artie and Vanessa had already made their escape, leaving the rest of them to sit out on Leena's lawn, watching the sunset. It had been a simple ceremony, but there were soft colors and dainty flowers; a stark contrast to their lives the past few weeks.

Grief can be tackled in many ways – for some it is easier to pull away, but for others it is only a reminder of what all they have left to lose. Myka understands why her friends had married so quickly, had feared losing each other _so much_, and yet she had scarcely been able to muster a smile for their sakes. She still feels far too young to have endured so much loss.

And then she sees Claudia clutching a photo of Steve and knows she's not the only one.

She sees Jane slip a flask from her purse when she thinks no-one's looking. But Myka won't say anything – it takes all her resolve not to do the same.

She watches Pete twirl Leena to some soft music crooning from an old record player. It might be the first time Leena's laughed in weeks, but, let's face it, Pete has never been the best dancer, and his energy is always contagious. There's no doubt that he's been their rock through this crisis, always there to pick up the pieces. He's personally helped arrange the funerals, written eulogies, obituaries, everything in his power to lessen the blow on his friends; his family. And even now, as he stumbles over Leena's bare toes, he's doing all he can to bring some small joy back into their lives. But deep down, Myka knows that Pete is suffering too. She sees it in every glance, every movement, as if he's aged ten years in as many days.

The night descends around them, pin-pricks of stars blinking awake, and soon Pete is standing before her, hand extended. "May I have this dance?" he asks, and smiles that lopsided grin that has become so endearing over the years.

She chokes out a short snort of laughter and shakes her head, waving her hands in front of her face as if fending off a swarm of insects. "No, no. I do _not_ dance." But a raise of his eyebrows is all it takes for her to cave in and let him pull her to her feet.

He pulls her into his arms. There's a sense of completeness in this act, in the hand at the small of her back, the gentle pulse of his heart. He's become a constant in her life, the one source of solidity in a world that is crumbling around her, and she won't – _can't_ – lose him. "What do we do now?" she asks softly, settling her head in the crook of his neck as they sway to and fro.

He's quiet for a long moment, then replies, "We take it one day at a time."

Her grip tightens against his shoulder, because part of her knows it will never be that simple, that they'll never be as they were before. And, she thinks, maybe they shouldn't. "And … and what if that isn't enough?"

He grows quiet again, his head settling against hers. And at once their fingers are entwining, pressing close over his heart. "I don't know," he breathes against her hair.

She looks up at him, memorizing the gentle pressure of his body, the soft adoration in his gaze. He's broken, too, and though he may never readily admit it, she knows he understands her. He always has. "I'm sick of losing everyone I care about," she whispers, voice breaking. "I want … I can't _have_ what I want." She sighs, rolling her eyes at her own foolishness. "God, I feel like a child."

"You've still got me, you know," he replies gently. "And Claudia and Leena. And Artie."

"For now."

He frowns, tightening his arm about her waist. "Myks," he says, pulling back to lock his eyes with hers. "I'm not going anywhere, okay? We'll get through this, we all will. I promise."

She feels the night thicken around them, isolating them for this brief, peaceful moment. Their companions retire, one by one slinking drowsily inside. The record has long since gone silent, but Pete's arms are still wrapped firmly around her, protecting her. He rests his forehead against hers and closes his eyes, because maybe he needs this too.

And despite all of her cynicism and every emotional wall she's ever built, she can't help but believe him.

–

Warehouse 13.1. That's what Artie calls it as he pores over the blueprints with Jane at his side. Myka knows this is necessary, that regardless of their personal loss, the work of Warehouse agents must continue. But nothing seems the same, and it feels like artifact-hunting should not be their first priority now. Too much has been broken, too many lives lost; it's nearly impossible to keep moving forward when it feels like a piece of your heart is physically missing.

Claudia has hardly spoken since the explosion, having holed up in her room, tinkering away at the remaining Teslas, typing away at her laptop. She's intent on bringing Steve back, no matter the cost. And maybe, Myka thinks, this is their fault, for having let someone so young, so innocent see the things they've seen.

Pete joins her at the table and passes her a thick file – unusually so – and she opens it with a frown. "This can't be good," she mutters, and absently chews on a Twizzlers.

"Not an artifact," he replies. "Super secret-important-rebuilding-the-warehouse stuff. Something about the Regents' Secret Archives or something." He opens his folder as well, leafing through the pages.

"Okay," Myka says, eyebrows raising. "So the Regents have a secret vault, a secret sanctum, and now secret archives? Seems a little-"

"Cloak and dagger?" Pete supplies helpfully.

Jane clears her throat and interjects from across the table, "We Regents do what we must to keep artifacts safe from the world."

Myka frowns. "Don't you mean to keep the world safe from artifacts?"

"The archives," Jane explains, ignoring Myka's question, "were built here in America in the eighteenth century. A little like separating a lock from its key. No-one had ever considered that thirteen little colonies would rise to power so quickly."

"So the Regents of Warehouse 12," Myka cuts in, understanding the logic, "hid them in a place so unassuming that no-one would ever think to look for them."

"Exactly," Jane says. "But the British-based Regents would still be able to have some power over the area. It didn't really matter, though. No-one has ever breached the barriers to the archives. Well, not until last night."

Pete breaks away from the cookie he's munching on. "Someone broke in?"

"Not exactly," says Artie, setting aside the blueprints. "The Remati Shackle detects activity in any of the Warehouse locations. Let's just say that the shackle pinged, but no alarms were activated."

"So what are you saying?" asks Myka. "They knew how to get in?"

"Maybe. We don't … exactly … know," replies Artie. "The archives were designed in part by the Swiss mathematician Leonhard Euler. Euler went blind at the peak of his productivity, but still continued to make mathematical breakthroughs every day. The archive locks were designed as a series of mathematical puzzles, a maze leading to the entrance. They were meant to blend in, taking the form of caves, and – ideally – the maze would be nearly impossible to solve without knowing the key. Nearly, uh, being the key word. It's conceivable for someone to stumble into the cave and trip the alert on the shackle."

"So …," Pete says, eyeing Artie skeptically, "you're saying it could be someone trying to destroy the world again, or it could just be a couple of kids fooling around."

"Maybe," Artie concedes. "But it's been over a hundred years since someone has gotten far enough to activate the shackle. It may not be long before they breach the interior as well. And I for one do not think it's a coincidence that this is happening merely weeks after … you know."

"Okay, wait," Myka cuts in, desperate to divert the conversation. "You still haven't told us what's _in_ these archives."

Everyone turns their gaze to Jane, expectantly.

"The archives are sort of like … the Warehouse's backup server," she says. "Actually the backup server is in the archives."

"But that's not all," says Pete. "You said the archives have been around since the colonial days. There had to be a purpose for them then, too."

Jane and Artie exchange a look. "Warehouse 12 had … different policies regarding artifacts," says Jane. "Some artifacts are too dangerous to be housed in the stacks of the Warehouse. Now, we put them in the Dark Vault, but in Warehouse 12, they were sent to the archives."

"That doesn't seem like it's asking for trouble at all," Pete remarks sarcastically.

"That's not all," Jane continues. "Some artifacts were identified by Warehouse 12, but not – what is it you say, Artie? Snagged and bagged?"

"So they just let artifacts into the world?" Myka asks, not fully buying into this tale, not believing that this was standard operating procedure in Helena's day.

"You've done it, too," Artie points out. "Remember the cross at Riverton prison? These artifacts were still on what the Regents refer to as 'active duty'. Artifacts aren't usually created for the sole purpose of wreaking havoc, after all. These are still essentially doing their job, and in possession of the appropriate person. Warehouse 12 agents would keep record of these artifacts, so they'd be easier to track down later, when things might get out of hand. These records are held in the archives as well."

"We had already planned to use these records to begin rebuilding the Warehouse's inventory," Jane explains. "But we were holding off until we had the proper facilities, tight enough security..."

Pete finishes her sentence for her, "But now it's become an emergency."

"Yep," Artie says, passing the Farnsworth across the table. "We'll explain the lock on your flight."

"Oh, goody," Pete mutters. Myka helps him gather up the files, Farnsworth, and their only remaining functional Tesla. She can practically see the tension between Pete and his mother, a battle of wills no-one is going to win, and she wonders briefly if their battling auras are why Leena's kept out of sight for days.

"Have fun in Maryland," Artie calls after them as they leave.

–

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Pete whispers, clicking the safety of his pistol into the off position. He's felt nothing but bad juju since they entered this twisting maze of tunnels. It started as a vague tingling sensation at the base of his neck, and has since spread to his whole body, every nerve on fire, ready to spring into response at every sound, every smell. And worst of all, every time he looks at Myka, he feels his stomach twist and drop. He's had many bad vibes in his life, but never one so painful.

At least, not since that day his father left for work and never came home.

"We're almost there," Myka whispers back. "Just to the left up here."

They make their way to the end of the tunnel, and are confronted by a dead end. He hands Myka his flashlight and presses both hands against the rock. The stone is cool, a remarkable contrast to the warm, thick air around them. It doesn't take long before he finds the engraving, a roughly carved Eye of Horus, twisted on its side at about hip height. He feels a buzz in his arm as he touches it. "I've got a _really_ bad feeling about this," he says to himself, under his breath.

"Press the iris in," Myka instructs, reading from the file. "And then rotate the door counter clockwise four times, then around again until it's upright at the top of the circle."

Pete grunts as he rotates the stone door, once, then twi- but the mechanism clicks before he even reaches the end of the first rotation, and the sinking feeling in his stomach rises like bile into his throat. Myka looks at him, and he looks back, and he's sure their expressions could both be classified as 'oh shit.'

He pushes the door open as quietly as possible, and nods his head toward the interior, signaling her to enter, but to be careful. Mother of everything good, be careful because this vibe is only getting worse. She takes right and he takes left. She has the Tesla because she's a better shot, but he's got his pistol, and with how his life has gone up in flames lately – literally – he's not afraid to use it.

The archives are not as special-looking as he'd expected. He watched that movie – Angels and Demons – once, with the Vatican's Secret Archives, and honestly he's a little disappointed that the Regents were showed up by Hollywood. There are rows of bookcases, but not nearly as many as he'd thought, and tables gathering dust. There are rows of crates around the perimeter of the room, as if no-one ever unpacked. But more concerning is the door, lined with lead and a familiar purple substance, opening into an empty room.

The artifacts are gone.

–

Myka finds her target at once. It wasn't really difficult – the backup server sticks out amongst all the antiques, a brief glimpse into a not-so-distant future. But she sinks low and scuttles behind some crates to reach it, because she hears voices, and they _do not_ belong to Pete. Oh, Pete. He's never been the best at stealth (though he would never admit it), and stealth is what it's going to take to keep them alive.

She slips the super-flash drive – one of Claudia's designs – into position, and thanks the powers-that-be for her photographic memory as she types in the command to transfer the records before wiping the memory. A progress bar pops up on the screen.

_Three minutes remaining._

Hopefully they'll have that long.

And as soon as she's thought it, she hears that all-too-familiar clicking of guns, and a rough voice. "Found 'er."

–

Pete's stomach twists painfully a split second before he hears the voice. It takes all the control he can muster not to run to her aid, and instead to crouch behind a bookcase, his pack already stuffed with as many records as he can manage. Whoever's here has already looted the artifacts, and about two stacks' worth of written records, but this shelf is still mostly full, allowing him a slim line of sight to the intruder. He aims his pistol carefully.

And then he sees a folder that gives him a vibe almost equal to that which he's already experiencing, and he shoves it in his pack as quickly as he can.

–

Myka briefly considers what a well aimed Tesla zap could do for her, but two more men, outfitted in state of the art black-ops gear, aim to use her for target practice, and she decides that maybe she'd be better off cooperating for now. She makes a show of putting her Tesla on the ground and kicking it away from herself.

And then she catches the glint of Pete's pistol out of the corner of her eye, and feels no less than ten muscles relax at the base of her neck. Because between the two of them, they can probably take on three of the intruders.

The computer continues to count down.

_One minute, fifty-seven seconds remaining._

And then four more men slip out from the crates behind her.

–

Pete curses silently, and racks his brain for a solution, any solution that ends with them leaving this place in one piece. He's lost so much, and losing his best friend is not on his to-do list today (or any day for that matter). A distraction would be nice, but preferably one that does not divert attention directly _back to him_.

… and then he smells fudge.

He scans the stacks until he sees it, two bookcases over there's an old glass bottle balanced precariously on the corner of the top shelf. It's resting on a long strip of linen that dangles down to about shoulder height. And then he notices the grooves, dug along the edges of the shelves, etching a path over each stack.

A contingency plan.

And though he could easily reach the linen and tip the bottle, he needs something _loud_.

–

"Who are you?" Myka asks, regarding the masked men carefully, hands laced behind her head. "What do you want?" She dares a glance toward the computer.

_One minute, twenty-two seconds remaining._

"We could ask the same of you," a voice replies. The man steps forward, and she notices at once that he's different from the rest. Though he may be outfitted in military-grade gear, he moves as if it's foreign to him. He favors his right leg, as if from age and not an injury. "Who sent you? Was it Jane?"

Myka stiffens at the mention of the name, because she always feels two steps behind. And she realizes that he must be the leader of this little operation.

And then it happens.

A gunshot and the sound of shattering glass.

_One minute remaining._

Her captors turn toward the sound – toward Pete – and they see Pete because the liquid from the broken bottle is dribbling all over the bookcases, their hues fading and fading, as if they're merely paintings at the mercy of paint thinner. And, Myka thinks, it probably _is_ paint thinner. Of some sort. And the shelves keep fading until they're transparent, and eventually they aren't there at all.

Pete fires again, hitting one of the men in the shoulder, causing him to drop his weapon and fall into the growing puddle of paint thinner on the floor. The man watches in silent horror for a moment as his legs grow pale and ultimately disappear entirely. And then he screams.

Myka scrambles for her Tesla, careful to avoid the growing puddles. She sees Pete dive behind a crate, away from the vanishing bookshelves, shielding himself from a cascade of bullets, and follows suit.

_Forty-two seconds remaining._

The thinner spreads, forming a puddle around one of the columns supporting the roof of this massive cave. And she knows Pete sees it too, because she hears, "Oh, crap," from a few crates away. There's a crackling noise as the pillar itself begins to crumble. And the leader sees it too, because even as his men continue to fire, he slips back out the door, dragging a large pack behind him.

But his men are trapped across the gallery behind another set of crates, away from the exit. And then they start screaming. Myka sees it – the puddle leaking out along one side of the crates – and she takes this opportunity while it's still there.

_Ten seconds remaining._

She rushes for the computer and pockets the flashdrive. She's just about to dive for the exit when she's knocked to her hands and knees, a burning sensation in the small of her back, and she wonders with dread if the paint thinner has gotten her too. She tries to crawl, to find Pete – Oh, god, _Pete_ – but her legs feel heavy, and then her whole body feels heavy.

She hears a rumbling and then a crash, and the screaming finally stops. She sees the door ahead, but her vision is getting fuzzy around the edges, and all she can focus on is a small glint of gold on the ground, a few feet from the exit.

"Myka!"

It's Pete. In an instant his arms are around her, pressing insistently at her back.

"God, Myks." His voice is breaking. "We've got to get you out of here, okay? Can you look at me?"

She blinks up at him, but he seems very far away.

"Can you walk?"

And she thinks, I can barely keep my eyes open, and then even that is too much.

"Stay with me," he tells her.

And she wishes she could.

–

Leena senses it first, then Jane. And then the two women are running from room to room, shouting for everyone to get out.

The explosion happens earlier than they'd thought.


	2. Act II

_Disclaimer: I really, really own nothing. Really. Warehouse 13 and its characters belong to Syfy, etc._

_Author's Note: This particular chapter also includes some "Bering and Wells" and Sam/Myka, but not much.  
_

* * *

**Act II**

"_Wake up, bunny."_

Light. Everything feels light as Myka opens her eyes.

"_There she is. I told you."_

The world comes into focus – a hospital room, a vase full of freshly cut flowers. Sam. Helena.

_No …_

"Am I … dead?" she asks hesitantly, glancing between her two companions. Everything is peaceful, uncharacteristic for the usual hustle and bustle atmosphere of a hospital. It's then that a feeling of dread begins to set in. "Oh God, I'm dead."

"No," Sam replies, and he seems almost sad.

"Not yet, anyway," says Helena.

"What happened?" Myka asks, because her mind is still a little fuzzy around the edges. She remembers the paint thinner, the pain. And suddenly she's frightened to look under the blankets to find out what she's missing.

But neither answers her question.

"You've got to wake up, bunny," Sam says again.

Myka swallows back a sob, because the weight is slowly returning to her body, and this meeting has been too brief. And though she finds no words, everything – _everything –_ is left unsaid between them.

"Come, darling," Helena says with a smile Myka knows is just a brave face. "Wouldn't want to make Pete worry."

Myka chokes. "What if … what if I don't want to wake up? What if I want to stay here?"

And then she can feel the cool touch of Helena's cheek against hers, the sensation of her breath against her ear. "We'll be here waiting," Helena promises, then presses her lips to Myka's forehead. "But you have so much left to do."

–

When Myka opens her eyes again, everything is heavy. But the world is in sharp focus around her – the burning itch at her IV port, the pressure of the pulse-ox monitor, the frantic commotion of a code blue in the adjacent room. There are no flowers in this room, or balloons, but through the cold sterility, she feels a firm grasp on her hand, warm and comforting.

Moving her head takes more effort than she'd thought. She finds Pete sitting in a chair at her bedside, asleep, her hand folded in his own. She notices his dirty, rumpled clothes and the mass of stubble on his cheek, and wonders with dread how long she's been out. "Pete," she croaks, and winces at the stabbing pain in her throat.

He gasps awake, and merely stares at her for a moment.

She stares back.

And then he's moving to the edge of the bed, still firmly clasping her hand in his own. "Myks," he soothes, his other hand cupping her cheek. His voice breaks as he whispers, "Thank God."

"Water," she chokes, the burning sensation in her throat suddenly overwhelming.

Pete locates the nearby pitcher and pours her a cup, before slipping an arm around her shoulders to prop her up, pressing the cup against her lips. Despite her independent nature, she's grateful for the help, because the simple act of keeping her eyelids open is taxing enough. The soothing effect of the water seems to go beyond her aching voice, and when he eases her back to the pillow, she's able to reach for his hand.

She closes her eyes for a moment, as if this could protect her from the truth, and finally asks, "Did the artifact … ?"

"Artifact?" Pete frowns. He's still perched on the edge of her bed, and he's clasping her hand within both of his."No, Myka. You were shot." And yet she still feels as if there's something he isn't telling her.

"Shot," she repeats, as if convincing herself. She's been trained to take a bullet, but somehow, after so long chasing artifacts, it's almost a let-down to be taken down by something so _normal_. "I was … oh, God." And then she's stunned into silence, all the clues falling into place in her mind.

He releases her hand and stands reluctantly, as if she may disappear if he leaves the room, and says, "I'll be back in five, I need to tell Dr. Vanessa that you're-"

She breaks from her trance and frantically grabs for his hand, holding on tightly, because she's never been this afraid before. "Pete," she says, voice dry with horror. "I can't feel my legs."

–

Myka finds it difficult to focus on Dr. Calder's words. She pinches the skin of her thigh as hard as she can, until she's sure it's purple and swollen, but she feels nothing – nothing at all. Pete's been pacing at the foot of her bed, and she does her best to conceal her jealousy, because it's a comfort she no longer has.

"Your spinal cord is completely in tact," Vanessa explains, showing her the x-ray taken upon her admittance two days ago. She's been out for _two days_, and all she can think is how Pete must have suffered for those two days. "But the bullet caused a lot of damage, all fixed with surgery of course, but the residual swelling is not responding to medications."

Myka sees the problem area on both x-rays – one two days and the other two hours old – where the surrounding tissue (the meninges, if she remembers her tenth grade biology correctly) is pushing against her spinal cord. "I'm sorry," she says, "but I don't see how this is supposed to be good news."

"It is and it isn't," replies Vanessa. She's all business, clinical, but there's an edge to her, as if she hasn't slept in days. "It means that until that swelling goes down, you will not be able to feel or move your legs, and if it takes too long, there could be … permanent damage."

"Still not seeing the good here," Pete chimes in.

"But," Vanessa says, "It's unlikely to be permanent. Odds are good that you will at least be able to walk again, but it's going to take time." Time they don't have, that is, and Myka knows it.

"Don't you have some sort of artifact-y thingamajig that can fix this?" asks Pete, getting frustrated. "You have all sorts of thingies in that bag of yours."

Vanessa frowns. "Nothing that can fix something of this magnitude," she explains. "And Pete, you know we can't just 'fix' things with artifacts. The only thing that could make Miss Bering walk right now is the Collodi Bracelet."

Myka sighs and adds darkly, "And we've seen how that turns out."

"So there's nothing you can do," Pete says, and it isn't a question. They both know the answer; working in the Secret Service they'd both seen their fair share of this type of debilitating injury. And worse, they've never seen any of those agents return to field duty.

Vanessa shakes her head. "Nothing but wait and see." A death sentence, as far as Myka's concerned.

Pete wipes a hand over his face, frustrated. Myka twists the bedsheets in her fists.

Vanessa closes the door and shuts the blinds. "I'm sorry, but there's more," she says quietly, her face taking on a grim expression. "We have bigger problems right now."

"I don't know about that," Myka murmurs, but she has a feeling that Vanessa may be right because from the look on Pete's face, he already knows.

"You two can't stay here," says Vanessa. "It's too dangerous. No-one can be trusted. Here." She hands Myka a folder – it contains a passport, driver's license, birth certificate and medical records, all with her picture, but all with the name Grace Conley.

"Everyone thinks we're dead," Pete explains. "All of us. Artie, Leena, Claudia and my mom, too."

"And it needs to stay that way," Vanessa adds. "For now, at least."

Myka's mind reels. "Wait, what happened at the B&B? Are they okay?"

"They're fine," Pete assures her.

"Someone delivered a package addressed to Claudia," Vanessa explains. "A bomb. I guess she'd been expecting some parts to work on the Teslas and when she opened it, the bomb was triggered."

"Oh God …" Myka breathes.

"Everyone made it out okay," Vanessa assures her. "But it's obvious now that the Warehouse – or what's left of it – is still under attack."

Myka frowns. "By whom? All of Sykes' men are dead."

Pete exchanges a glance with Vanessa, and Myka realizes how tired she is of being two steps behind. Steps … well now that's just a cruel way to think about it.

"We found this," he says, holding out his hand to show her the little gold object – a lapel pin depicting the Eye of Horus, much like the ones worn by the … _no_ – "in the Archives. _I _didn't see it when we went in. Did you?"

She knows this is a serious question – photographic memory. Had she seen it? _No._ She shakes her head. "You can't possibly mean –"

"_No-one_ can be trusted," Vanessa repeats. "We've gathered the information you two managed to save, and assigned everyone aliases. We're doing the only thing we can now – splitting up the information and the agents until we figure out who's behind this."

"We've gotta make it as hard as possible for them," Pete says. "It's the only way to keep everyone safe."

"Artie and Claudia are already en route to DC, Leena's heading south, to Colorado to keep an eye on your parents," Vanessa explains to Myka. "And Jane and her daughter will be backpacking through Europe. I'll continue to treat the Regents."

"What about us?" Myka asks, though she's admittedly a little afraid of the answer. Going undercover tends to mean playing house with Pete, and he always milks it for all it's worth.

"You're stable enough to be moved, so you two leave tonight for Girdwood, Alaska," Vanessa says. "The Alyeska ski resort is just down the street, and there will be a cabin waiting for you. Nothing as unassuming as a couple on their honeymoon."

Myka sighs and covers her face with her pillow, joking with herself that maybe she'd have been better off dead. _Not this ruse again._

–

Artie fought the implication that he was Claudia's father figure for a long time, and he wonders if it's a coincidence that as soon as he accepts this label, she becomes a sullen, rebellious teenager. Perhaps he is being too hard on her, because he knows the loss she's endured, the abandonment she's felt her whole life, but the fight isn't over, and if they're going to win, he needs all his people focused.

And what a mess they are, with Myka temporarily paralyzed, Pete playing nursemaid, and only one Regent they can trust. The odds are certainly not in their favor, and the last thing he needs to concern himself with is an inconsolable teenager.

But he can't help it, because he loves her, and she's in pain. He understands – he holds some of the responsibility for Steve's death, for Helena's, for Mrs. Frederic's.

And he's been ripped from his life as well. He misses Vanessa, even though he's loathe to admit it.

"Got a ping," Claudia says from across the room.

"What is it?" he asks, slipping onto the couch beside her to see what she's found.

"This Regent. Name's … Douglas Westcott." She takes a long drink of her soda and pulls up several windows, listing credit card transactions and bank statements. "He's been falling off the grid a lot lately."

"Well do you blame him?" Artie asks skeptically. "Look what else has happened lately."

Claudia rolls her eyes. "Yeah, Gramps, but take a look at this." She moves the cursor to the space between two dates. "What happened this day?"

Artie's eyes widen, but he's still skeptical. "Claudia, that doesn't necessarily mean-" But then he sees it – a large (very, very large) sum of money withdrawn from his savings account only a week before the attack. _In cash._ "That is kinda fishy," he agrees.

"But that's where the paper trail ends for him," she says.

"It's a start," he replies. He can't help but notice how she's changed – the dark circles under her eyes, the way her ribs are prominent even through her shirt. She's breaking, and he doesn't know how to fix it, because he isn't a father.

And he thinks how much harder this would be if he was.

–

Myka wakes to a scream.

She isn't sure where it came from, or who it was, but it fills her with a sense of twisted terror. She recognizes her hospital room – the clean, unfeeling white walls – and watches the lights flicker.

"Pete!" she calls. "Dr. Calder?"

No response.

There's no wheelchair and her legs are dead weight, useless lumps of flesh, so she does her best to lessen the fall as she slips out of bed onto the cold, linoleum floor and drags herself out into the hallway. She catches sight of the blood only a few yards away – a trickling trail winding through the hospital.

"Is anyone here?" she tries again, and she wonders if this is what Pete's vibes feel like, because she feels sick to her stomach.

Her elbows are a bloodied mess and she thinks the blood might be her own, and she's certain she's ripped open a few of her stitches. She turns a corner and she sees it – a man lying in a pool of blood, unmoving.

She reaches him, her hospital gown soaked through.

"You were late, bunny."

Myka yelps as she scrambles away, her deadened legs slipping in all the blood. "No, Sam," she says firmly, but she can feel the tears soaking her cheeks. "You're dead. You've been dead a long time."

His dead eyes are staring at her.

It's then that Myka sees her, lying in a heap of ashes a few yards away. Her skin is charred, burned through to muscle, to bone, and her eyes aren't even there anymore, just ashen, empty sockets.

"Helena?" Myka whispers, but she's suddenly finding it hard to fill her lungs with air, and she wonders if this is what a panic attack feels like.

"Please, help me," Helena whispers, and she reaches a hand toward Myka, still smoldering and reeking of burnt flesh.

But there's nothing to be done. "I'm sorry," Myka sobs. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you."

"Myka!"

It's Pete.

"Pete!" she yells, scrambling down the hallway as fast as she can, her arms nearly giving out from under her. It's only then that she realizes that the hallway is endless, disappearing at infinity in both directions, and Pete is still screaming in pain. But she can't reach him.

"_Myka!"_

She'll never reach him in time.

"_Myka, wake up!_

–

Myka wakes to find her skin slick with sweat, her breath coming in short ragged gasps as if she's been crying for hours. "It's okay," Pete breathes against her ear, and it takes a few moments to register the unfamiliar walls of the cabin, the daylight spilling in from the windows and his hands stroking soothingly over the tense muscles in her back. "I've got you. It's okay."

She tries to calm her breathing, and settles her head against the flat plain of his chest, listening to the steady pounding of his heart, doing everything she can to convince herself that he's still alive; that she had not failed him too. There are no words to describe what she's experiencing, that her medications cause vivid nightmares and hallucinations, that she feels like she's falling and helpless to stop it.

Myka finally settles, breathing deeply against his shoulder, but her fingers are still clenched around his bicep, because letting go right now is more terrifying than anything. When she's finally brave enough to look up at him, he's staring back with pure concern and empathy. She realizes at once that he is the most important person in her life now.

But more importantly, she realizes that there's no point in hiding anymore. Never before has she felt that there is nothing at all and yet everything left to lose; because they have narrowly avoided death (again) and who knows if they'll be so lucky the next time.

And she's not sure, but she thinks he's meeting her halfway, his fingers tangling in her hair as their lips meet. There's no magic, no fireworks bursting above their heads, but _he's kissing her back_ and she hasn't felt this content since … ever.

There is a long silence when she pulls away (but she doesn't move more than an inch because he may very well disappear or try to make a break for it). "Myks," he says, and though his voice breaks, his fingers are still caught up in her hair.

"Yeah?" she whispers, her lips a breath from his.

"I'm sorry," he says, and that isn't really what she was hoping to hear. "I'll, uh," and he clears his throat, pulling away. "I'll be in the other room, if you need me."

And the moment is gone.

And then so is he.

–

Vanessa is accustomed to making house calls for Regents, and as often as they manage to fall ill, one would think it impossible for her to a hold a staff position at the CDC as well. But Switzerland had not been on her vacation list.

"What seems to be the problem?" she asks, a little annoyed that the man hadn't been very forthcoming over the phone, and she would be particularly peeved if she flew all this way for the sniffles.

"It's a shame," the man says, "about those agents. How did they die again?"

Vanessa frowns, because her 'autopsy reports' had been sent via courier to all Regents, and there's something edgy in his tone that she doesn't like. She's known all along that she'd be in the most danger, interacting with the Regents with no indication as to which one may be the mole, but she hadn't expected to stumble so blindly into what she's beginning to think is a trap. "Which ones? There were two incidents."

Her cell phone vibrates against her hip, and she takes a glance at it, because this is all about acting natural, right?

_Douglas Westcott_

_-Claudia_

Well, that's a little too late.

"I think you know what I'm talking about," says Westcott.

"No, actually," Vanessa replies, because she isn't going down without her dignity, "I'm afraid I don't."

She's seen many artifacts in her time at the Warehouse, and occasionally been affected by them, so deep down she curses herself for having not come more prepared, because she's already felt the shift in her mind, and knows an artifact is in play, words threatening to spill from her mouth without even so much as a question. She covers her mouth with her hands.

"Now, let's try that again," he says. "But this time, how about the truth?"

"They're alive," she blurts through her fingers, and wishes she could reach her pistol, but the artifact is in her mind now, taking root first in her temporal lobes then her motor cortex. She chokes back a sob and breathes, "God forgive me."

"Good, good," Westcott nods. "Now, tell me where they are right now."


	3. Act III

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. Warehouse 13 and its characters belong to SyFy, NBCUniversal, etc._

_Author's Note: This is it! Thank you all so much for reading.  
_

* * *

**Act III**

It happens all at once – a tingling sensation quickly becoming a shot of pain (glorious, beautiful pain).

Pete's hand is on her calf, guiding her legs gently under the blankets for the night, and Myka relishes the sensation of his callused fingers, his careful grip, all because she _can_. And before she can say anything, or do anything to stop it, there are tears in her eyes.

"You all right?" Pete asks, full of concern, and rubs his thumb over her skin.

"Your hand," she replies, and wipes at her eyes, "I can feel it."

A multitude of expressions flicker over Pete's face, before he settles on a smile, and soon they're both laughing because there are no words suitable for a moment such as this. She isn't sure how it happens, but suddenly her fingers are tangled up in his hair and he's kissing her. She tastes the mirth and pure joy on his tongue and smiles against his mouth.

There's a silent question in his eyes, when he pulls away to look at her, and she nods, because there are still no words for the happiness bubbling over between them.

And maybe she needs this – some inseverable connection to another person (to _him, _because it's Pete, and maybe, by some twist of fate, it was always meant to be Pete). Her heart melts at how gentle he is, how carefully he works her shirt past her freshly changed dressings and over her head. This is not nearly as weird as she'd feared it would be, no bumbling or awkward laughter, just her body yielding to his as if this were the thousandth time.

She revels in every touch, every sensation, and smiles into his skin as she feels her toes curl into the bedsheets.

–

"Wow," says Pete, trailing his fingertips over Myka's arm.

She feels there should be some more eloquent way to express that sentiment, but comes up with little better, and hums a little, "Mhm," instead.

Her legs ache, nerves finally waking, one by one, but she manages to stroke her foot along Pete's calf, and the freedom in this action is almost overwhelming. She nestles her head further into the crook of his neck and sighs. She's thought about these moments (plural, because she hadn't thought both life altering events would happen at once), for nearly a week now, and she's just now realizing that she hadn't thought any farther than this.

"We should probably call Dr. Vanessa," Pete says finally, but shows no sign of moving. "Or get you checked out at the hospital."

Myka sighs in annoyance. "Do you really have to do that?"

"What?" But he knows what – she knows him better than that.

"Kill the mood like that," she says, and curls a little closer, because suddenly the tables are turned and she's not sure how to be the emotional one, or how to deal with a pragmatic Pete.

"Myks," he says, his voice taking on a softer yet more serious tone. "That … what just happened … we should ..." He sighs. "I don't know what to say."

"Why do we have to say anything?" she counters, and props herself up on an elbow to look at him. "I mean, what is there to say?" She's almost laughing again, endorphins still coursing through her veins, filling her to the brim with energy, but she knows her evasion is deeper than that. There's a dull sort of terror that fills her, sobriety hitting her with the weight of what has just transpired between them, and she'd much rather stay sated and content in this moment.

And perhaps he realizes that, because his response is to pull her back into his arms, and brush a chaste kiss against her forehead. "Thank you," he whispers, and she's sure now that he needed this too. Their bond will always be unique, a friendship running deeper than most marriages, and perhaps this is a logical progression for them. Or perhaps not. All she's really certain of is that, in this moment, she's right where she's meant to be.

–

Vanessa wakes in a strange room with perhaps the worst hangover she's ever had. It appears to be a sparse hotel room. The beds are perfectly made and she's lying in an unforgiving heap on the floor. She pinches the bridge of her nose in an attempt to gain some semblance of focus, but her senses are on overdrive. She checks her phone, looking for a clue as to what's going on, and squints against its offending light.

Fifteen missed calls.

But more disturbing is the date. She's never been one to forget the day, much less the day of the week, and if she's right, she's lost an entire day. It takes every ounce of effort to drag herself to her feet and dial Artie's number. An automated voice answers her, _"We are unable to reach the number you have dialed at this time. Please call-"_

She smells the lingering scent of fudge, and knows that whatever has happened cannot be good.

–

Claudia Donovan is the hacker of all hackers, and she knows it. Her digital blockades are unsurpassed, making her laptop more secure than Fort Knox. That's why when a cackling skull-and-crossbones pops up on her screen, it takes her almost a full moment to realize she's been hacked.

And hacked good.

Her fingers race through cyberspace, confident that this infarction can be remedied.

"My cell phone's been disconnected!" Artie grouses from across the room.

She thinks she has it. Just a few more redirects …

Artie's voice takes on a grave tone, low and serious. "The Farnsworth's frequency has been blocked."

Claudia's screen turns to black.

"They're coming for Pete and Myka," Artie says, but Claudia already knows, "and they have no idea."

–

They talk through the night – about their families, their losses, life – and yet neither dares to speak of what's passed between them. It isn't awkward; after all, this is not the first time they've been naked in bed together, and the closeness of the narrow mattress offers them a sort of emotional intimacy.

"I'm sorry I left," Myka says finally. Though she's told him a thousand times before, it's never seemed sufficient, not accurately portraying the deep regret she still harbors.

"I know," Pete replies. "But I forgave you. You know that, right?"

"Maybe," she says, "I just need to forgive myself."

And maybe, she thinks, this has been the tension lingering between them for so long. They've addressed it time and time again, apologized and forgiven, and yet it's never been enough. Maybe they needed this – the destruction, the loss – to rebuild the fragile tendrils of their friendship, to forge it anew through fire and brimstone, because she feels the guilt wash away when Pete smiles at her.

But then his smile fades.

"You okay?" she asks.

"I have a really bad feeling," he says, and rushes out of bed. He tugs on his pants and boxers, and doesn't even bother to crack a joke when he tosses her his shirt and her underwear.

"What's wrong?" she tries again, and struggles to pull on her clothes beneath the covers. Pete scoops her up in his arms with no warning and gently deposits her on the floor. She opens her mouth to protest, but realizes that she's mostly useless in a fight at the moment, her untested legs still stiff and likely unable to bear any weight. Her stomach churns in frustration, because she knows to try to fight may very well spell death for her partner.

"Stay hidden," he instructs, motioning for her to slide under the bed. He hands her a fully loaded pistol before disappearing through the bedroom door to investigate.

–

The light is dim as Pete steps carefully out the front door of the cabin, probably as dark as it will get tonight. Their accommodations have offered them an unparalleled view, secluded in the Alaskan wilderness. There aren't many opportunities for stealth – an unwanted vehicle would not only stick out visually, but would likely be heard over the sounds of the forest. The nearest cabin is nearly a mile away, and he still only finds their rental situated on the narrow gravel road. But he doesn't expect their enemies to be so careless as to bring a vehicle this close.

He hears only silence, the characteristic soundtrack of the forest muted. Never a good sign. He keeps his Tesla at the ready, fully intent on being able to smack these bastards once all is over and done with. He's edging along the corner of the cabin, searching the perimeter when he suddenly has difficulty moving his feet. He looks down to find a bear trap, of all things, stuck on his shoes, and an old brass key at his toe. It's an artifact, he's sure, because instead of slicing through his flesh, the metal has molded around him, leaving him completely unharmed.

"Roosevelt's bear trap."

Pete looks up to find the owner of the voice, and instantly trains his Tesla on the man. "Hold it right there, psycho," he says. "Just because I'm stuck doesn't mean I can't use this."

"Oh, I'm afraid you're mistaken," warns the stranger. "You see that key there? That belonged to Benjamin Franklin. It has the unique ability to drain electric charge. Gave Edison quite the run around, actually."

"Who the hell are you?" Pete counters. He's well dressed, and knowledgeable of artifacts, most likely the rogue Regent they've been looking for - Westcott. What Pete can't understand is why a Regent would turn on the Warehouse like this, condemning them all. He must be trying to rebuild his own collection of artifacts, but to what end? He's like a comic book super villain, Pete thinks, minus the funny costume.

"That doesn't really matter now, does it?" Westcott pulls a gun from his belt and trains it on Pete. "This is what's going to happen: you are going to give me the records you took from the archives, and then you're going to die. Is that clear?"

Pete scoffs, hoping if he plays it cool, Myka may go undetected and make it out of this alive. "If you're just going to kill me anyways, why would I tell you?" That's when he notices the difference in this encounter, and the sickening feeling in his stomach deepens. "Where's your backup anyway?"

"Keeping tabs on my contingency plan," Westcott explains, and holds up a cell phone. Pete squints until he recognizes the faces on the screen – his mother and sister. "That photo was taken from the scope of one of my riflemen approximately two minutes ago. Impressive, no?"

"You bastard," Pete seethes, but knows he must continue to cooperate. For his family's sake.

"So, if I relieve you of that little trap, would you be so kind as to give me those documents?" Westcott smiles, and Pete feels his blood run cold. This plot has been carefully crafted, and any wrong move will cost him dearly. He knows he can't refuse.

–

Myka hears the muffled voices coming from the front room, hears the fear in Pete's voice, and all she can think is how this can't happen again. She thinks of Sam, of how she couldn't save him, only seconds behind. She thinks of Helena, dying so that she might live, smiling in those last moments. Too many lives have been lost in this fight – basic statistics tell her that she shouldn't be alive right now, and it's almost always because someone else has taken her place.

She remembers Steve, and how he risked everything to keep them all safe; how he paid with his life.

Determination wells within her – she will _not_ let Pete meet the same fate.

–

"Why are you doing this?" Pete asks, hands clasped firmly behind his head.

"The Warehouse has been in ruins for a lot longer than you might think," Westcott replies, and enters the combination on the safe. "Artifacts wasting away in crates, on shelves, when they could be put to good use. Haven't you seen it? Society is crumbling: hunger, disease, not even to mention the energy crisis. Don't you think we could use these artifacts to help mankind?"

"Dude," Pete balks. "You're a Regent. You should know that artifacts always have side effects. You're off your rocker, man."

The safe clicks open. "I had a feeling we might not see eye to eye." Westcott begins to pack away the contents of the safe. "That's fine, though. Makes tying up loose ends much easier."

"Okay," Pete says, swallowing the sickening feeling that creeps up his throat. "You've got what you want. Call your sniper off." He's doing what he can to stand as a physical barrier between the man and the bedroom, as if this one last line of defense could spare Myka the fate he's already accepted. He only hopes this doesn't look as conspicuous as he feels.

"Not so fast," replies Westcott. "There's one thing missing here."

Pete frowns, because as far as he's aware, the safe contained every record they were responsible for. "No, that's everything." But he does not dare to invite the man to search the cabin, because he knows Myka has had little time to escape.

"What about your partner?" Westcott asks with a grin, raising his gun once more. "My intel says that she should be here with you. Frankly, I'm a little surprised she survived."

A gunshot, and Westcott drops his weapon, clutching his injured shoulder. Pete doesn't hesitate, years of military and secret service training springing him into action instantly, and retrieves the fallen gun, using it to clock the other man in the head. Westcott falls to the ground, out cold. And when Pete's finished checking the man's pulse, he looks up to find the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Myka is in the bathroom doorway, wearing no more than her underwear and a too-big T-shirt, pistol in hand, smiling. And though her legs are trembling, and she looks as if she may collapse at any moment, she's _standing_, bracing her weight against the doorjamb.

All Pete can do is smile back, because it's over.

Finally, everything's going to be all right.

–

Weeks pass like days, and soon summer has shifted into autumn, a crisp chill enveloping the world. Healing has begun in the Warehouse, as they rebuild more than walls and stone; everyday there are more smiles, more laughter echoing through the halls of the newly constructed bed-and-breakfast. Their family, once devastated by tragedy and loss, is learning to love again, to trust again. Though the scars will never truly heal, they bear them proudly, a reminder of the cost of their dreams.

Besides, Myka thinks, these are things she would rather never forget.

Some things never change, though, and Pete meets her in front of the hotel with a handful of cookies. "So what's the plan?" he asks before taking a bite.

"The violin went missing right after a charity benefit," she replies. "So I say we start by working our way through the guest list."

"Sounds good," he says, and stuffs the remaining cookies in his jacket pocket for later. "Shall we?"

Things are returning to normal, she thinks, slowly but surely. And there is nothing more normal than chasing artifacts with her best friend at her side.

She smiles at the gentle pressure of his hand at the small of her back as they walk down the streets of Vienna, side by side.


End file.
